In the mean time Espy was making way for himself and Ethel through the crowds that filled the corridors of Memorial Hall. Reaching that portion of the building appropriated to the works of American artists, he paused for a moment or two before several paintings in succession, calling her attention to the good points of each, and giving the artist’s name; but when they came to his own he waited silently for her to speak. One glance, and she turned to him, her eyes full, her features working with emotion. “Mother!” was the one word that came low and gaspingly from the quivering lips. His face was a study, the gratified pride of the artist mingling with the tender sympathy of the lover. He drew her arm within his, for she was trembling like an aspen leaf. She allowed him to support her while she turned again to the picture and studied it with mournful pleasure. Mrs. Kemper’s face was a peculiar one, and had changed but little during the fifteen quiet, uneventful years of her life in Cranley. This picture of Espy’s--painted from memory--represented her as he had first seen her, with the little Ethel by her side dressed as she was then, and holding her doll in her arms. The pretty baby-face was as perfect a likeness as the other. Memory had done him good service here also, and, in addition, he had had the assistance of a photograph taken about that time. A second painting hung by the side of the first--a full-length portrait of our heroine standing on the threshold of her Cranley home, as Espy had seen her on looking back after bidding her good-by when leaving for college the last time before the accident that wrought such woe to the young, light-hearted girl whose pathway had been hitherto so bright and sunny. It was a speaking likeness of a very lovely face, fair and winning, with the freshness of early youth and the sweetness and vivacity lent it by a keen intellect and a happy, loving heart. The figure and attitude were the perfection of symmetry and grace. It received many a lingering look of admiration from strangers, but a single glance was all that Ethel bestowed upon it. But Mrs. Kemper’s face chained her. For many minutes her eyes were riveted upon it. “Do not sell this; I must have it,” she said to Espy as at last she turned sighing away. “It is yours from this moment,” he said, flashing upon her a look of ecstatic love. “It must be late; see how long the shadows are!” she remarked as they came down the marble steps. “Ah, my aunt has sent for us! how fortunate!” as she espied a carriage at some little distance, Rory upon the box, driving slowly along and looking this way and that as if in search of some one. She signalled him, and in another minute they were bowling rapidly homeward. Arrived, Espy was requested to take a seat in the parlor while Ethel ran up to her aunt’s room. The Madame was at first disposed to be cross, but on hearing the wonderful news her mood changed.